


rare as the glimmer of a comet in the sky

by vasorlova



Category: Dress Up! Time Princess (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:47:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29809323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vasorlova/pseuds/vasorlova
Summary: It’s my name coming from his lips, I think. It cuts the thread my composure has been hanging on for so long and the dam finally breaks. The tears come, slowly but surely, like an avalanche of misery. In this locked, secluded room, in the company of one of the most dangerous men in the city, I finally let go.[set between 3-20 and 4-15]
Relationships: Elizabeth Colvin/Vittorio Puzo
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	rare as the glimmer of a comet in the sky

When I finally get back to the Sparrow Room, my hands are shaking. Not only my hands – my legs, my jaw, my lips – as if I’m a leaf in a thunderstorm, mere seconds from being blown away. I grit my teeth, the fake smile I’ve worn these past few hours finally slipping from my face. I must pull myself together—

A wave of nausea washes over me and I barely make it to the bathroom in time to reach the toilet. I throw up everything Juliano has fed me, all of the wine I’d swallowed in order to bear it. I throw up until there’s nothing left inside me and I dry heave for several moments, shaking against the cool porcelain.

I crawl beneath the shower, scalding hot water pouring over me. I scrub, and I brush and I claw at my skin, trying to wash away Juliano’s smell, _his touch_ , from my body. I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, but then I think of Mrs. Molly, how cross she’ll be when she sees I’d damaged my face, and bite at the inside of my mouth instead.

The metallic taste centers me somehow. I’m still alive. I haven’t lost. I’m moving forward with my plan and I’m so close to getting the evidence I’d set out to find. None of _this_ means anything, I tell myself, it’s just a means to an end. I knew this would happen eventually. I agreed anyway.

I can’t wash away his smell. Despite scrubbing myself raw, the suffocating odor I’ve started to associate with him seems to have stuck to my bones like a brand.

One of the dancing girls, Kitty, walks into my room without knocking. I hide my reddened skin beneath a silk robe, forcing that smile back onto my face. She prattles on about how lucky I am, how inspiring I am, how she wants to find a patron at least half as important as Mr. Juliano and do I think I can recommend her to one of his _associates_?

I scratch at my arm, my smile tight around the edges. “Of course,” I say pleasantly, and it’s what she wants – isn’t it? – that glimmer of hope for a change, for something, _anything_ , to take her away from this place. It’s the hope that keeps us going, waking up each morning, that keeps us twirling and twirling and twirling until our heads start to spin and our legs start to shake. For Kitty, it’s the hope for a man who’ll save her, for me—in this moment my hope seems to be even more intangible than hers.

I chat with her for a while, clasping my shaking hands behind my back, my smile as bright as the sun outside. Once she leaves, I can barely breathe.

After another wave of nausea subsides, I throw on my most modest dress, force a hat over my wet hair. I walk outside, still smiling, still shaking, until I lose myself in the crowd; the safe phonebooth is three streets farther.

I call Mr. Puzo.

-

One of his men drops me at an unremarkable building in Brooklyn. It looks inconspicuous from the outside, but – as it was with his other properties – it’s luxuriously furnished on the inside. There are rococo paintings hanging in the hallway, Persian carpets beneath my shoes. I focus on those details, grasp at them with desperation, trying to think of anything, anything but—

The man lets me into a room and quietly closes the door behind him. I fall back against the wood, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath as I watch Mr. Puzo set down his cup of coffee on the table and rise from the sofa.

“Miss Colvin?” he asks, his deep voice wrapping like silk around me. I must imagine the alarm that flashes across his usually so impassive face. His dark eyes take me in, from top to bottom, looking for broken pieces, missing parts. But my cracks are not the sort to be seen. “Elizabeth?”

It’s my name coming from his lips, I think. It cuts the thread my composure has been hanging on for so long and the dam finally breaks. The tears come, slowly but surely, like an avalanche of misery. In this locked, secluded room, in the company of one of the most dangerous men in the city, I finally let go.

He takes a step towards me, then stops, uncertain. Emotions I can’t decipher flicker in his eyes.

I pull away from the door on unsteady legs. “Can—can I?” I gasp.

Mr. Puzo swallows. “Anything,” he says in a low voice.

I move blindly, barely seeing him through my tears. It’s a freefall now, as I stumble towards him, led by some inane need for comfort. I fall against his chest, my hands clutching at his waistcoat. He’s not wearing a jacket today, just that waistcoat, so silky, and cool to the touch, and a crisp white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. No gloves, no tie, no jacket. So few layers to bar me from his warmth. I bury my face into his collar, the smell of tobacco and sandalwood filling my lungs, erasing the memories of last night from my mind.

I feel him stiffen beneath my touch and for a moment I fear he’s going to push me away. But then his arms rise and wrap around me. I feel his warmth and safety, enfolding like a protective cocoon around me. I cry harder.

I sob violently, grasping at his clothes, ruining his shirt. One of his hands on my back starts moving in soothing circles, gently, so gently, its warmth seeping through my dress and sinking into my skin. With my tears I release my sadness and fear and humiliation, my uncertainty and longing. Mr. Puzo holds on to me tightly, gathering the broken pieces of me in his arms.

Through the sound of my wailing, I can hear a knock on the door. “Not now,” Mr. Puzo growls, and the knocking stops immediately. No one walks in. No one disobeys him.

I think of Juliano’s commanding voice, his cruel hands. Of his eyes, like a rabid dog in his fury, of his chilling smile as he killed a man in front of me. Blood splattering over the floor, over my dress. Over my face.

My legs give out beneath me. Mr. Puzo keeps me upright with little effort, arms wrapped securely around me, as he maneuvers us back towards the sofa. I close my eyes in a futile effort to block the memories from pulling me under and I cling to him for all I have.

He doesn’t let me go. Even as he sits down on the sofa and I follow him in blind desperation, fearing I would disintegrate if I lose his support. I grab for his waistcoat again, wet with my tears, and the motion sends me sprawling across his lap. He breathes in sharply, his whole body tensing again, as I bury my face into his neck, my hands moving up to his shoulders. I continue to shake until his arms wrap themselves around me once more, holding me close, holding me safe. I drown in his scent, comforting and intoxicating at the same time.

I don’t know how long we sit like that. Minutes, hours? Days? I cry until there are no tears left, until all I’m doing is gasping through a raw throat. My mind quiets, the sound of gunshots no longer ringing in my ears.

Finally, I get my bearings. Like a bucket of cold water, it registers that I’ve assaulted Mr. Puzo, clawing at him like a wild animal. That I’ve wept into his clothes, forced my proximity on him and embarrassed him—if not worse. He must think me a mad woman. I must look like one, too.

I lift my head and look away, avoiding his eyes. Mortification washes over me, and my face grows hot. As I start to furiously wipe at my face with my hands, he pushes a soft piece of fabric between my fingers. I accept gratefully, dabbing at my eyes with the offered handkerchief. It’s white and delicate, with his initials embroidered in one corner.

But there is nothing else I can do to avoid him now. I shift slightly, and I realize I’m still very much sitting in Mr. Puzo’s lap. That one of his hands is resting against the small of my back; the other, on my thigh, just above the knee. I flush crimson.

“I’m sorry,” I say hoarsely, rising to move away from him. I lose my balance, and his grip on me tightens imperceptibly. Caught off guard, I finally look at him.

His eyes are brown—deep, dark brown, like bitter chocolate. They seem bottomless, two windows to an unknown galaxy, drawing me in. Drowning me.

“Do you want out?” he asks bluntly, those eyes piercing me through. Oh, how I wish I could say yes. How I wish I could ask him to take me away, take me back, take me home—but I can’t and he won’t. So I shake my head.

He doesn’t question my judgement. Doesn’t try to persuade me to change my mind. Instead he nods, and says, “tell me what happened.” It’s an order, or at least it sounds like one, coming from a man used to being obeyed. But I’m so tired of being told what to do, so tired of being a marionette in the hands of others. My eyes flash and I raise my chin defiantly, ready to scratch even though my claws have been filed down to nothing.

Seeing my reaction, he heaves a small sigh and adds, “please”.

Just like that, the anger leaves. I’m so tired. Wrung out and spent and quite possibly festering inside. I don’t want to go. I don’t want this man to let me go.

But we had a deal and I have to do my part.

“I slept with Juliano last night,” I say finally, sounding hollow even to my own ears. I don’t look at him anymore but I can feel him tense, his grip on me tightening momentarily then leaving altogether. Immediately I miss his touch. The cold creeps back inside me with a vengeance and I shiver, wrapping my arms around me. “And again this morning, for that matter.”

“Did he hurt you?” His words are quiet, drawn out with precision, as if it takes him a great amount of control to force them out.

I laugh mirthlessly and turn my head to look back at him. The muscles in his jaw are flexing. So close to him, I can see the beginnings of stubble shadowing his cheeks down to his neck, where I’ve held my head mere minutes before. I inhale sharply. “He didn’t. I even think he fancied himself tender and loving.” Another laugh escapes me. I’m becoming hysterical.

“I shouldn’t have let you do this,” he grits out, dark eyes flashing. My anger returns with a vengeance, rising like a tidal wave.

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss. I push at his chest with enough force to unbalance myself; instinctively he clasps his hands on my waist to steady me. “Don’t you dare treat me like I had no say in the matter, Mr. Puzo.” I wind myself up, digging my finger right above his heart. “I knew this would happen eventually, _if_ I was lucky. If I wasn’t, I would be dead. I knew that, too. I’ve thought it through, over and over, I assessed the risk and deemed it would be worth it—for the chance of obtaining the evidence needed to stop him and make him pay.” Mr. Puzo opens his mouth to say something but I raise my finger to stop him. “So don’t you dare act like any of this was your choice. It was _mine_ and mine alone.”

I breathe heavily, my outburst leaving me drained. He watches me silently, his expression once more schooled into the image of impassion. “I’m sorry,” he says at last. I draw back in surprise. “You’re right, of course.” He starts to remove his hands from where they’ve been resting at my waist, but I cover them with my own to keep them in place. His dark eyes meet my own. “You’re far braver than I gave you credit for.”

“Damn right, I am,” I say softly. His hands are so big and warm, and for a mad second I wish I could feel them on my bare skin. I’ve lost so much weight since I’ve started my work in the Sparrow Room, and my hipbones are jutting out, so fragile beneath his strong grip. But I don’t feel scared, to the contrary—I can’t remember the last time since I’ve felt this secure. I should feel repulsed, being so close to a man, in a position Juliano has forced me into so many times before. And yet, I feel none of it; instead, I wish I could be closer. I shake my head to clear my mind.

“He told me about his businesses, about some of his colleagues; he’s practically admitted to trafficking girls.” I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “It’s all bits and pieces at this point, but since I’m his main girl now, he’s going to let me in. I’m close—very close, Mr. Puzo.”

His fingers start rubbing soothing circles at my hips and I almost purr at the feeling. “Remember, we need solid evidence,” he says in a low voice. “What he tells you is good enough for a start but we won’t be able to do him in without physical proof.”

 _We_. Us. I flash him a smile far braver than I feel. “Don’t worry, boss. Rome wasn’t built in a day. I’ll get it eventually.” 

He lifts his hand from my hip and brings it, so slowly, to my cheek. The backs of his fingers brush my skin in a gentle caress. “I’m not your boss, Elizabeth.”

I shiver, transfixed by his touch, transfixed by his eyes. “No, you’re not.”

His gaze caresses me, the way his fingers caress my cheek. His eyes stray to my lips, and suddenly there’s only one thought in my mind. I want him to kiss me. I want him to erase the hurt and the loneliness, and replace it with pleasure and safety. I want to kiss him. The need for him fills me up to the brim, a torrent of longing and raw hunger I can barely understand.

There is another knock at the door. “Boss, Miss Colvin really should be going now,” a male voice calls from the hallway, as I spring away from Mr. Puzo, horrified at what I—we—had almost done. We cannot get involved. It would be disastrous, I’m sure of it, there are hundreds of reasons why, even though in this moment I can’t think of even one.

Mr. Puzo rises with me, unflappable and stoic as always, while I’m torn between running without a backward glance and tearing off his clothes. I’m unbalanced and traumatized. I need sleep.

I’m still holding his handkerchief.

I look at the soft fabric, the lovingly embroidered initials. It smells like him, even soaked up with my tears.

“My sister made it for me,” he says softly. “She made dozens more. You can keep it.”

I close my fingers around the handkerchief. Then I extend my hand. “No,” I whisper, “you know I can’t.”

I can’t have it with me; if anyone saw it, I’d be dead. I can’t keep it. I can’t keep anything of him.

I leave it behind.


End file.
